


Refrain

by thewildwilds



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Divorce, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Odesta, Odesta Writers' Heartbreak, Odesta Writers' Heartbreak Challenge, Songwriting, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annie Cresta is a songwriter chasing her dreams. One fateful day, she meets a man who claims to be Finnick Odair, the famous singer, and her husband from fifteen years in the future. And he has one request.</p><p>"I need you to promise not to marry me."</p><p>Modern Time Traveler AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refrain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Babydoll Ria (Babydoll_Ria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babydoll_Ria/gifts), [BeesKnees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesKnees/gifts), [sabaceanbabe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabaceanbabe/gifts), [ambpersand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambpersand/gifts).



> This is my part for #odestawritersheartbreak! I'm not nearly as good at writing gut-wrenching heartache like my fellow partners in crime, but I gave it a shot, so I hope you guys enjoy! (And I'm so sorry for how long this got.)
> 
> I based this on an Asian drama I watched long ago, along with listening to the cast recording for The Last Five Years non-stop.
> 
> For the prompt “Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?”
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.

**re·frain**  (rəˈfrān)

> **1.** _verb._ stop oneself from doing something.  
>  **2.**   _noun._  a repeated line or number of lines in a poem or song, typically at the end of each verse.

 

**— iii —**

 

At first, she thinks it's a joke.

He introduced himself as Finnick Odair. That's not the weird part. She's already met Finnick Odair just yesterday, and yet this man felt the need to reintroduce himself to her, for good reason.

It's the second part that throws her off, makes her want to laugh, to run, find someplace to hide, get away from this lunatic speaking nonsense. But something about him makes her do none of those things, because she sees it. She sees it in the extra creases around his mouth, his eyes, on his forehead. And there's something different in his eyes. Something weary, something melancholy, so unlike the bright sea-green eyes she stared into a day ago.

She has to amend her thoughts.

He introduced himself as Finnick Odair, her husband from fifteen years in the future. And he has one request.

“Annie Cresta,” he begins. “I need you to promise not to marry me.”

While her body tries to catch up to her racing mind, she thinks back to how she came to this point in her life.

 

**— i —**

 

Two days ago, Annie Cresta had one of the worst days of her life. Funny how she was hoping it'd be her best.

That day she was meeting with Seneca Crane, a producer with The District, one of the biggest recording studios in the city. She had hardly slept a wink while she holed herself up in her tiny makeshift studio in her apartment, writing melodies and hooks and beats until each of her fingertips were callused. She was glad to have such a heavy sleeper for a roommate. After all those years working at a sawmill, Annie supposed Johanna's hearing must have been shot.

She had checked at least ten times to make sure she had everything with her before she left: paper copies of her music scores, all neatly tucked in a black leather folio, numerous CDs with sample recordings of her work, and a back-up flash drive, just in case. Annie Cresta was nothing if not prepared. She was going to make sure the day went off without a hitch.

Until a man wearing sunglasses and a fedora cut in front of her—out of no where, she swore—and climbed into the cab she had just flagged down.

“Hey!” she yelped.

“You snooze, you lose, honey!” cried the man.

She shot forward and caught the edge of the cab door before he could close it. “Excuse me! I was going to take that cab!” she said with a scowl.

“And now I'm the one in it,” he replied. He shut the door with a snap and she had to quickly yank back her fingers to keep them from getting jammed. The cab sped off while she screamed curses after it.

Annie sucked in a big breath, trying to calm her flaring nerves. There was no reason to panic now, she had bigger fish to fry. She considered her options, tossing them around in her head as she shuffled in place. She could try to flag down another cab, or make for the subway. Cab. Subway. Cab. Subway.

_Who even wears a fedora anymore? Hipsters and Dick Tracy wannabes, that's who._

In the end, she ran for the subway, hustling as fast as her petite legs could carry her. Her blouse caught on the turnstile, and she nearly lost a shoe while she sped across the platform and into the train car just a second before the doors snapped shut. Eyes stared at her from all around, but she didn't care. She was only a little bit sorry when she finally made it to The District building and bumped into a few men and woman in her haste.

It wasn't until the doors of the elevator closed in front of her that she finally got a good look at herself in the reflection. Strands of her hair were sticking up at odd angles, and her blouse hung crookedly on her torso. She cursed under her breath, frantically running her fingers through her hair in an effort to tame it again.

She arrived at her floor before she could finish rearranging her top. The woman at the front desk across the hall gave her an odd look as she approached. “Can I help you?” the woman said with feigned politeness. Annie bit her lip nervously. She was at least an hour late. _Maybe if I don't bring it up…_ “I'm here to meet with Mr. Crane? He's supposed to look over some of my songs.”

“Name?”

“Cresta. Annie Cresta.”

The woman nodded and typed a few things on her keyboard, then stopped and looked up at Annie from underneath her impossibly long lashes. “One moment.” She picked up the phone, shot Annie one more withering look, and swiveled around in her chair.

Annie swallowed. Not a good sign.

She spoke in hushed tones over the phone, and Annie strained to hear what she was saying. She could only see her nod every so often.

The woman swiveled back around. “I'm sorry, but Mr. Crane is currently booked for the rest of the day and won't be seeing anymore visitors.”

Annie's heart immediately plummeted to her feet. “But… Wait! You can't just… I've had this meeting scheduled for a month!”

But the woman only offered her a snooty sort of smile. “Well, Miss Cresta, perhaps you should have thought of that before you arrived so late.” And she pointedly looked away and brought the phone back to her ear, effectively shutting out any further argument.

Annie glared at the woman, who refused to meet her eyes. Defeated and angry, she grabbed a handful of caramels from the little sweets dish on the desk and stormed away.

That night, she went home and drowned her sorrows in several glasses of wine and stolen confections while her roommate Johanna pat her back and offered to castrate the guy that had wronged her.

 

**— ii —**

 

Perhaps it was last night's wine, or her determination, or Johanna's aggressive urgings, or a combination of all of it at once, but the next day, Annie found herself back at The District, arguing with the woman at the front desk, with little success.

“Let me speak to him personally.”

“Ma'am—”

“Just two minutes. That's all I ask—”

“ _Ma'am_ ,” she snapped, "if you do not vacate the building immediately, I will be forced to call security.” (Annie did not miss the way the woman pulled the candy dish further from her reach.)

Her grip tightened around her folio. “No need. I'm going,” she hissed, turning on her heel and striding off.

_Lovely impression. Let it be known that getting ahead in the world with hard-work is nothing but bullshit. What does determination get you, Annie Cresta? Stolen caramels and a possible restraining order._

She was still internally cursing everything that had gone wrong in her career when the elevator dinged at her floor. Without thinking, she moved to step into the elevator, only to crash straight into somebody walking out of it at the same time. She stumbled back and dropped her folio in a flurry of papers.

“I'm so sorry!” she sputtered, crouching to collect the loose sheet music.

“No, no, it's my fault,” the other person replied, crouching as well to help her. It was only then that she saw the person she had unceremoniously crashed into was none other than Finnick Odair.

Annie's breath hitched, for a reason that she'd chalk up to feeling star-struck. (When she thinks back to it now, she realizes it was not quite the case.) But there was something strange, seeing him here in front of her. Had she met him somewhere before?

She shook her head to relinquish the thought. Of course she'd never _met_ him before, but she had certainly seen him. He was Finnick Odair, one of the hottest singers of the century, voted sexiest man alive by People Magazine just this year, and frequent headliner for all the hot Hollywood gossip. The tabloids paid particular attention to which starlet he was currently wooing. He was the celebrity world's darling, and whoever he was dating, he never stayed for long.

Annie scrabbled to pull all the loose papers into one neat pile, but stopped cold when she heard a familiar sound, one she'd only heard in her apartment, many times over, while she worked away tirelessly at her piano. Finnick Odair was holding a sheet of her music, eyes following the notes on the paper as he quietly hummed the melody under his breath.

She reached her hand out for the paper, not wanting to appear so rude as to snatch in from his hands, but wishing to do exactly that. “That's not—”

He lifted his gaze from the sheet to meet her eyes. “Did you write this?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“It's really good. Catchy. You wrote the lyrics too?”

She nodded again. (It seemed as though her voice wasn't cooperating with her today.)

“Who's it for?”

“Oh, um, nobody, yet.” She shrugged. Seneca Crane never explained which recording artist she was going to meet with, and Finnick Odair didn't need to hear her sob-story.

But he smiled. He handed the sheet music back to her and ruffled the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry for snooping. Sometimes I stick my nose into places it doesn't belong. I… I'm really sorry, but I didn't catch your name…?”

“Annie. Annie Cresta,” she managed to spit out.

His eyes widened a touch. “Oh. You're the songwriter I was supposed to meet with yesterday.”

Her face flushed cherry-red. So that's who she blew her chances with. She nodded once again.

“Mr. Odair, is there a problem?” The damn woman at the front desk approached, cautiously looking between the two of them.

Finnick Odair waved his hand dismissively. “No problem. I was just having a nice conversation with Miss Cresta here.”

Her gaze flickered over to Annie only briefly. “I see. I'm sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Crane asked me to make sure you went in to see him straight away as soon as you arrived.”

“Of course.” He tipped his imaginary hat to her. “Miss Cresta. I hope we meet again soon.”

Annie mumbled something she was sure was meant to sound like “Likewise,” climbing into the empty elevator. As she waited for the doors to shut, she couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she saw Finnick Odair scoop up a handful of candies from the dish on his way past the front desk.

Later that night, she received a voice mail on her phone. “Miss Cresta. Seneca Crane here. It seems Mr. Odair was very impressed with the work he saw from you today, and he was most insistent that we record some of your compositions. We'd like you to come in to discuss further collaborations, say, tomorrow at ten o'clock? Oh, and please do make sure to be on time, will you?”

She pulled the wine out of the cabinet again, for a far happier reason.

 

**— iii, da capo —**

 

“I need you to promise not to marry me.”

She had just barely left her meeting at The District when he had approached her and dropped the bomb that had stolen her ability to speak. No matter which way she turns it around in her head, it still sounds the same.

Finnick Odair. Her husband. Fifteen years in the future.

It occurs to her that this man is the same one that stole her cab two days ago. She hasn't a clue why he would target her. (Other than for the reason he's giving, which she doesn't believe.) A publicity stunt, perhaps. Some brand new prank reality TV show, luring in hapless artists, baiting them with opportunity, then performing elaborate pranks and filming their reactions for all the world to see. Ha ha. So very funny.

But that face… Almost exactly like the celebrity she'd met just the other day, only… older. A relative, perhaps. Or make-up, prosthetics. That's the only reasonable explanation she can think of, and Finnick Odair has enough money to get the best effects artists money can buy.

“This is a joke isn't it?" she finally says.

Nothing wavers in his expression to give him away. “No.”

But she scoffs, “Of course you'd say that.”

“I promise you, Annie. This isn't a joke. I really am Finnick Odair, from fifteen years in the future. You don't have to believe me if you don't want to. All you have to do is promise not to marry me, and I'll leave you be.”

The easy thing would be to just say yes. But then she'd have to admit to this charade, and that would make her a fool. Annie Cresta is no fool. If this really is a prank, she won't be played, and she won't have her humiliation televised.

She narrows her eyes and pushes past him. “I don't know what you're up to, but I don't have time for this.”

Even if there's the smallest, tiniest, wildest chance that he truly is a time traveler, surely he can't possibly convince her that she would someday marry Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair is an irresponsible, skirt-chasing, philanderer. What's there to worry about?

 

**— iv —**

 

Her work at The District begins the following Monday. (She can't help smirking smugly at the woman at the front desk when she passes by.) Finnick Odair is also there, of course, all ready to get to work as she goes over all the songs they've chosen from her folio for him to record. She approaches him cautiously, and she supposes he sums it up to being polite or professional, but really, her head is still reeling from the man with the sunglasses and fedora. She watches him carefully, keeping an eye out for an nervous quirks or twitches that will give him away. But as the days go on, he doesn't show any indication to having masqueraded as her husband from the future, instead spending that time focusing on the music and lyrics. He's either a very good actor, or—

(Or the man in the sunglasses and fedora is telling the truth. She refuses to believe it.)

They hold a party at The District, a social mixer, and she's invited by association. She knows she should go, to schmooze and make connections, and she does, but there's a discouraging nervousness that settles in her bones.

Seneca Crane introduces her to some important people when she asks, though he seems to do so begrudgingly. She tries to make conversation, tries not to drink too much of the flutes of champagne everybody's holding. But the longer she stays, surrounded by so many people that could make or break her career, the more her heartbeat quickens, the dizzier she gets, and it feels like the walls are closing in on her.

She has to leave. She has to find someplace else to be before she makes a fool of herself in front of hundreds of faces. The first place she thinks to go to is the recording booth. Music. Music is safe. She'll be safe there.

She hurries into the booth and leans against the door when she shuts it behind her, but she's startled to see she isn't alone after-all. Finnick Odair stands by the piano, looking equally startled as he stares back.

“Oh. Mr. Odair. I'm sorry, I thought this room was unoccupied,” she stammers.

“You hiding out too?”

She's silent for a beat, but her answering smile is sheepish. “Yes,” she concedes. She smooths out the front of her top. “I'm no good at crowds. Truly.”

Finnick smiles, the dimples oh-so-prominent on his face. “It's good to get away, every once in a while. Can't say I favor them much myself.”

Once again, he surprises her. She wouldn't take Finnick Odair as the type to hide himself from an adoring crowd. That's what the magazines and news articles always have her believe, at least.

He turns his attention back to the piano. “Y'know, I haven't played one of these in a while. I'm probably way out of practice.” He positions his hands over the keys, and she braces herself for what she's about to hear.

Yep. Sure enough. _Für Elise._

She groans before she can stop herself.

“What?” He's grinning, like this was the reaction he had expected from her all along. The expression on her face must be especially comical because he starts laughing. “I mean it was either that, or _Chopsticks_ , or _Heart and Soul,_ right?” He sits down properly on the bench and begins playing a different song. It's a haunting melody, a bit crude, but pleasant, one she can't place.

“I've never heard that song before,” she says, drawing closer into the room.

“For good reason. I wrote it when I was like fourteen.”

Annie raises her brows. “You write your own music?” After their first meeting, she'd gone home and done all the research she could on Finnick Odair and his work, and she hadn't read anything about him writing his own music.

He shakes his head. “Naw. Not anymore, at least. Mostly I collaborate with other writers and record what they have. All they really care about are the pipes I got, and the face with those pipes.”

“Well, you attract all your lovers that way.” She means it as a joke, but the way the smile slides right off his face and the way he slumps forward on the bench makes her guess he didn't take it that way. “Yeah…” he says pensively, staring at some spot on the wall.

Annie furrows her brows and shuffles on her feet, unsure how to deal with this Finnick. She hadn't meant to offend him, but this was the last reaction she would have expected from her words. “I'm sorry,” she says at last.

He looks to her curiously. “For what?”

“For…” For what? She gestures vaguely with her hands.

This makes him chuckle. “Can you keep a secret?” he asks. Annie blinks, and nods cautiously. “What if I told you I haven't slept with nearly as many women the tabloids say I do? What if I told you I have an image to keep up, because my face is my livelihood?”

“I…” She swallows, sinks down into an empty chair. “I'd say, I guess that makes sense.” It did. The sexiest man alive would be far more intriguing as a young bachelor, but surely he had other options. She tilts her head to the side. “Is it that bad? Being a celebrity.”

“Not all bad. I get to sing. And I love it. I do. It's really exhilarating, working with all the technicians, the musicians. Songwriters.” He looks at her when he says this. “Everybody that plays a part in it. I help bring their vision to life, and share it with the world, make somebody's day a bit brighter.” He shrugs. “I just have to deal with some of the unsavory stuff that goes with it. But I wish everybody else saw how much heart these people put into their work.”

“I think it's lovely,” she replies with a careful nod. “I'd like to be able to experience it, as well. Make somebody's day a bit brighter.”

“Well, that'll start here. Working with us here. Or maybe it'll be with another artist. You have plenty of opportunity to make your mark in the world.”

His words strike a cord in her. She chews her bottom lip. “Can you keep a secret?” she asks, mimicking his words from earlier.

Finnick looks a bit surprised, but nods. “Secrets are my middle name,” he answers. (Annie smiles. She's pretty sure it's Miles.)

“Here. Scooch over.” She hip-checks him at the piano bench while he slides over to make room. All of a sudden, everything feels right, as she glides her fingers over the ivory keys in a bouncy, upbeat melody.

“Recognize this?” she asks.

He nods. “Yeah. That's the jingle for Cinnamon Ex. That breakfast cereal.”

Annie just grins knowingly and keeps playing.

Realization dawns on him. “No way. You wrote that?”

And she sings, _“Crunchy squares with a cinnamon kiss! My favorite cereal, a bowlful of bliss! Won't someone tell me, tell me what the secret is?”_

He doesn't miss a beat when he joins her on the chorus. _“_ _It's the Ex, Ex, Ex, Ex, Ex, Ex, Ex, Ex! I gotta know the secret of the Cinnamon Ex! _”_  _She finishes with a flourish, and Finnick is laughing so hard, he can't sit up straight. He looks to her as he sobers up, eyes bright. “Oh man. I _loved_ that jingle.”

She smiles, resting her hands on her thighs. Cinnamon Ex, the breakfast cereal marketed towards active teens, hadn't lasted on the store shelves for very long. “Yeah, well, it's what got me my first check as a professional songwriter.” Her fingers soon find the piano keys again, seeking that familiar comfort. “That's the first mark I made, I guess. I can't say writing breakfast jingles is exactly what I want. But they say once you make your mark in the music industry, you're stuck in the hole you dig.”

“So what do you want?”

“A Grammy.” She says it surely. “Probably sounds materialistic, to want a shiny award, huh? But that's what I've always wanted. I want to write music that inspires people. Makes them happy in ways they didn't expect. I always thought you could bring people together with music, even if they speak a different language. Music is universal. So, a world that can come together and recognize my dream… that's what I want.” He's staring at her with an odd look. She falters only slightly. “What? Is it so crazy to go from cereal jingles to Grammy awards?”

“No, it's not that. Just…” He pauses. “The look in your eyes when you talk about your dream, y'know? You should see it.”

He says it like it's something obvious, but the way he stares at her, so reverently, makes her flush, and she can't look away.

Annie rests her hands back on her knees.

“We should probably get back out there,” she says quietly.

Finnick rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically, and that breaks the hold he's had on her gaze. “Must we?” But he sits up from the piano bench, offers a hand to help her up too. She takes it.

“Come along, Annie,” he says, grinning. “We got a dream to live.”

 

**— v —**

 

Annie hurries down the street, waving apologetically to a car that honks at her. The café across the street is a godsend from all the hours she's been spending at the studio. She has a feeling she'll be a regular here before long, which is fine by her. She's quite enamored with the place, with its quaint little tables and the smell of coffee beans in the air.

She's studying the chalkboard menu, contemplating what to order, when a familiar voice calls to her.

“Annie.”

She whirls around at the sound of her name, and there he is, Mr. Sunglasses-and-Fedora, sitting at a small table in the far corner. “Mind joining me?” He nods to the empty chair across from him. Annie hesitates. She furrows her brow and looks around the café. It's the busy hour, people coming and going every second; if he tries anything, there will be plenty of people around to hear her scream.

She crosses over, sits down in the empty seat, but keeps her bag shouldered. She doesn't plan on staying.

“What do you want?”

“I told you already. I want you to promise not to marry me.”

Before she can say anything, a perky waitress comes over, balancing two cups of coffee on a tray. “Who had the vanilla blonde roast?” He raises his hand. The waitress places his drink down first, and then wordlessly drops down the second drink in front of her before walking off. Annie gives him a questioning stare, but he doesn't look up from stirring five lumps of sugar into his cup. “I ordered something for you. Hope you don't mind,” he says cordially.

She shakes her head, takes a cautious sip from her cup and is surprised to see it's just the way she likes it. (A dark roast. Two creams, no sugar.)

She places her cup back down. “I hope you realize how crazy you sound.”

“Yes, I know. I tried taking a subtler approach, but that didn't work. So I'm taking a more direct one.”

A subtler approach. The cab. She remembers it all too clearly, and her temper burns. “That was on purpose?”

He nods.

“Why?”

“Fifteen years from now, we'll file for divorce. So to save us from all the wasted time, I'm here to ask you not to marry me.” (So that's the reason. It's classic time traveler movie fodder: if you could redo a moment in your lie, would you?) He sips from his cup. “Fifteen years is a long time to waste on something that only ends in disaster, don't you think? So I think we should nip it in the bud before anything gets too serious. Save us the headache.”

“But… What about— Do we—” She's embarrassed to ask about any potential kids they may have in the future. Still it seems cruel to deny the life of somebody she hasn't even met yet.

He seems to understand what she's floundering around for without her saying it anyway. “We don't have any children.” A pause. “We weren't able to have any together.”

Another pause. “I see.” She shouldn't feel disappointed.

“So. I need you to swear to me you won't marry me.”

Annie heaves a sigh, taking a long sip from her cup. “I'm still not completely convinced that this isn't some terrible prank.”

“It's not.”

“But _time travel?”_

“Our friend Wiress and her partner Beetee develop it. She's always had a thing for clocks, and she's a genius. It was really only a matter of time, in a manner of speaking, before she nailed down the secret to time travel.”

“So why don't you just tell yourself—your past self—not to marry me? Why go through me at all?”

He shakes his head. “I can't. The paradox. I'll feel physically ill if I try and talk to my past self. Anybody else is fine. Just not him.”

She doesn't know what else to say. They're at a stand-still; she won't submit to his delusions, he won't stop bothering her until she does, and neither of them are backing down.

She digs through her purse, slaps down a couple of bills onto the table. “I have to get back to work. Thank you for the coffee,” she says shortly.

She gets up quickly, hopes to leave before he can say anything else, but he yells at her retreating form, “Think about it, Annie. Think about your future.”

 

**— vi —**

 

She decides to avoid the café altogether after that. She sticks to the sludge they keep at the studio, or has somebody fetch something for her. Like right now, the studio intern, Rue, is jotting down everybody's orders for a coffee run. “How do you take your coffee, Miss Cresta?” she asks.

“Two creams, no sugar, please.”

“No sugar?” Finnick pipes up. He dramatically slaps a hand over his heart and looks stricken, but it quickly melts away into a grin. “I'll try and remember that.”

The intern returns with her coffee, and she takes it with a small thank you.

It's not until later, while she tosses her empty cup into the trash, that she realizes Finnick truly did remember after-all.

 

**— vii —**

 

It turns out avoiding the café doesn't matter, because Sunglasses-and-Fedora shows up when she's locking her car on the way into the studio. Annie barely spares him a passing glance, finding the contents of her purse much more interesting.

“Have you thought about what I said?” he asks when she ignores him.

“No. Not really.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she snaps. “Okay. So you're Finnick Odair from the future. Maybe I believe you. That doesn't give you the right to come here and keep bothering me. I'm _busy_. I'm recording an album that could make my career. Go bother your past self, if you're so worried about wasting all your time spent married to me. Convince _him_ not to—”

He suddenly grabs her arms and holds her so she's facing him, and she startles so suddenly she's breathless. “It's _you_ I'm worried about, not him,” he hisses.

She's close enough to see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He's glaring with an understated ferocity, but something about him still looks so tired. Defeated. How Finnick Odair, who radiates life, could be one in the same with this man with the tired eyes amazes her.

All of it terrifies her so suddenly, she begins to tremble. She narrows her eyes, breaks his hold on her and shoves him away. “Leave me alone!” she cries out, running through the doors to the studio. He doesn't follow, and she lets out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding when she makes it to the elevator unpursued.

Is marriage with her really such a terrible deal?

 

**— viii —**

 

The days tick by like seconds on a clock. Annie is amazed at how quickly time passes when she's at the recording studio. Pride swells within her the more and more her music comes to life. Finnick contributes to this in no small part; besides having an amazing voice, he's dedicated to his craft, offers insight to her songs she'd never think about, and often acts as peacekeeper if she and the musicians or mixers or anybody else get in too big of a disagreement.

Coffee runs together at the café across the street have become part of her daily routine, as she predicted. They chat over their respective cups, sometimes about work, but mostly other things that will momentarily take their minds off their hectic schedules, even if just for a little bit. She doesn't spot a fedora anywhere in the crowd.

Sometimes he'll call her at random hours in the day, asking for her opinion on how to approach a particularly tricky section of one of her songs, and she'll do the best she can to assist him over the phone, but that almost always ends with her inviting him over to her apartment instead.

(“To help him with the music,” Annie insists. Johanna smirks all the same.)

They're sitting in a meeting together, with Crane leading, and Finnick keeps trying to make her laugh. Her cheeks are aching from all the laughter she's had to suppress in favor of appearing professional and serious, but then Finnick mimes hanging himself because he's so bored, and an undignified snort escapes her. Crane suddenly looks her way.

“Is something the matter, Miss Cresta?” he asks, not looking the least bit pleased. Annie coughs and waves her hand. “Sorry. Just… my allergies.” She sniffs to emphasize and Finnick— _damn that man_ —is making fish faces at her from behind Crane's back. _Stop_ , she mouths when Crane turns away again. He grins hugely, a cat that's caught the canary.

She pointedly kicks Finnick in the shin from underneath the table; it's a bit of a stretch, but she can reach. In response, Finnick begins languidly rubbing his foot up and down her calf. Annie forces herself not to react, but chances another glance at him. He has also schooled his face into a perfectly neutral expression, but he still continues discreetly caressing her calf beneath the table. When he notices her looking at him, he winks. She curls her fingers over her mouth, like she's in deep thought, but she's just trying to hide the goofy smile on her face.

 

**— ix —**

 

“ _And you can't see it now, but it's coming back to you, and you can't stop it once it starts.”_ He runs his hand through his ruddy locks. “Does that sound right? I don't know.”

“You're trying too hard, you gotta let go at this part. Try more staccato, with the music, here.” She shows him; her fingers bounce along the keys, short and sharp, while she sings along.

He stares at her with a curious eye. “You have a pretty good voice, you know. You never wanted to be a singer?”

Annie shakes her head quickly. “Singing's not for me. I get awful stage fright. Bit of a long story.”

Finnick quirks a brow, but settles back in his seat and raises his chin. She takes the invitation to elaborate and twists around on the piano bench until she's straddling it, facing him.

“It started one summer when I was at music camp. Yes, I was a music camp nerd. At the end of camp, there was this sort of recital thing, where people performed whatever they learned for the rest of the campers. They had me singing and accompanying myself on the piano, because they wanted me to overcome my shyness. So the day of the performance came, and I was so nervous. My camp counselor noticed, and she said, 'Don't worry, Annie. Just picture everybody in their underwear.' Problem was, as soon as I got on stage, I did exactly that. I pictured everybody in their underwear, and I was horrified. I ran off stage and threw up in the bathroom, and once more outside.”

He's staring at her seriously. Too seriously. She doesn't like it, and her suspicions are confirmed when he raises one slender brow and asks, “So. You're saying, if you were to perform on stage for me, you'd be seeing Finnick Odair in his underwear?”

His laughter is downright obnoxious as she swats at him, trying to look upset. “Stop it, it's not funny. I really do get terrible anxiety, you know.”

The corner of his lips twitch, but he manages to school his face into a forlorn expression. “You're right. You're right. I am very sorry.”

And, oh, she can't help it. He's so adorable when he looks like that, she starts giggling too. Suddenly Finnick leans forward, planting his palms against the piano bench so he can lean towards her, nose-to-nose, and her laughter dies away. “Annie Cresta. Are you saying you wouldn't want to see Finnick Odair in his underwear? See, it even rhymes. I know how much you love rhymes,” he says, low and husky, drawing closer. Her eyelids flutter close as his lips brush against hers.

The door suddenly slams shut, and she jumps away from Finnick with a start. Johanna is home, and the look on her face tells her she's been home long enough to witness their little moment.

“Don't stop on account of me, kids,” she says cheekily, hanging up her coat. (She's long since gotten over feeling star-struck from having Finnick Odair in their apartment.) She grabs a beer from the fridge and makes a show of going into her room and closing the door to give them their privacy.

Finnick looks to her like he can barely contain his laughter. She won't bite. Annie clears her throat, smooths out her skirt, the picture of formality.

“Shall we continue at the chorus?”

And Finnick cracks up, has to bury his face against her leg to calm himself.

 

**— x —**

 

She's not sure if she'll ever get used to holding hands with Finnick in public, but they do so when they spend a weekend on Brighton Beach, chasing the tide. He leans in to kiss her, and as he draws close, she grabs a handful of wet sand and slaps it into his face. She's protesting while he chases her across the beach—“Finnick, _stop!”_ —but she's breathless from laughing as Finnick picks her up off her feet and hoists her over his shoulder.

They walk hand-in-hand to her car, both of them sand-caked. Finnick stops short at a sign on the edge of Brighton Beach and he tugs her back. Somebody has slapped a sticker that says “Little Odessa” on the sign; Finnick studies it with a smile. "Gimme a pen." He's unfazed by the puzzled look she throws him. “I know you have one, clutterbug.”

He's right, of course; she carries everything in her bag. She rolls her eyes, relents and digs around for a Sharpie. He uncaps it with his teeth and begins scribbling over the stickered letters on the sign. (Leave it to a celebrity to think they can vandalize private property without a care.)

Annie peers at his handiwork when he grins proudly at her from over his shoulder. He's covered the second “S” in Odessa with a big, blocky “T” instead.

“Odesta?”

“It's our celebrity power-couple name!” Annie groans and he laughs at the face she's making. “Hey, it's better than 'Fannie.'” He nuzzles her, brushes his nose against hers and says quietly, "Now everybody will know this is our spot."

“If you say so.” She shrugs, but she's grinning. She tugs him down for a kiss, and she can feel his answering smile against her lips.

 

**— xi —**

 

She's lost in such a daze of happiness that she's forgotten all about Sunglasses-and-Fedora. After all these months, she had half-expected him to be a figment of her imagination. But even when she spots him leaning against her car as she steps into the parking lot, she's no longer surprised.

“You're not going to agree to my request, are you?” he asks.

Prank or not, it doesn't matter anymore. She knows how she feels.

“I love him,” she says.

He closes his eyes, exhales slowly. “I see.” And he walks away.

 

**— xii —**

 

Annie drums her fingers against her arm as waits outside the recording studio. She and Finnick were on their way to having dinner together, but he had been called away at the last second before he could leave with her. He had asked her to wait for him while he finished up whatever he needed to do, so that is what she does.

“Annie.”

He's standing behind her. She feels his lips, warm against her neck, and she suppresses a giggle, but doesn't turn around.

“Were you waiting for long?”

She shakes her head, means to say something like “No, not really,” but it comes out as an incoherent noise in the back of her throat as he grazes his teeth along the junction of where her neck meets her shoulder. He traces the tip of his tongue lightly over her flesh, and then suckles the same spot. A pleasured sigh escapes her lips without her bidding. Eyelids fluttering shut, she reaches back, winds her fingers through his tousled curls.

“Annie…?”

Her eyes snap open.

_Oh no._

Before her stands Finnick, eyebrows drawn taut, hurt written so plainly on his face. Her stomach ices over as she turns her head to meet the eyes of her assailant.

Oh, his eyes look so much like her Finnick's. Same color, same shape, same _everything_ , but it's all wrong. He's not wearing his sunglasses or his fedora, and he stares at her seriously for just a second. _(What have you done?)_ He knows exactly what he's done. And suddenly he's gone.

She looks back to Finnick, still staring unblinking at her.

“Finnick, wait—”

But he turns abruptly on his heel without another word and leaves as well.

 

**— xiii —**

 

She finds Finnick in the recording booth, half-heartedly tracing his fingers over the black keys. He looks up when she enters; she's never seen him looking so broken before. His eyes move from her face to something just below her chin, and she knows immediately what he's staring at. The mark on her neck _he_ left her. (She won't ever refer to him as Finnick. He's not her Finnick.) Nervously, she tugs the collar of her sweater up a bit higher, a fruitless gesture.

Finnick meets her gaze again with a dispassionate half-smile. “I guess I deserved this, huh?”

Annie feels like somebody punched her in the gut, because suddenly she can't breathe.

All the rumors, the women, the stories.

For all intents and purposes, he had witnessed her fooling around with another man, and he doesn't even blame her for any of it; he blames himself.

“Oh, Finnick, no. No, of course not. It's—” She snaps her jaw shut. What is she supposed to say? That it was all a misunderstanding? That the man he caught kissing her neck was really him fifteen years in the future all along? That his future self is on a ceaseless quest to keep the two of them apart? If she truly thought he was going to believe any of that, then she was crazier than she gave herself credit for.

But apparently her silence speaks volumes to him. When she gives no other answer, he tries to smile reassuringly, but it comes out tight, strained on his face. “It's okay, Annie,” he says quietly. He passes without looking at her on the way out the door, and she just wants to cry.

 

**— xiv —**

 

The world is unfair, and she has to live it.

Finnick had barely said a thing to her at work, keeping her at arm's length, which just made her heart ache painfully. Now Annie sits with her face in her hands when she feels the presence of somebody standing before her. She doesn't have to look up to know who it is. “He doesn't hate me,” she whispers into her hands. “He hates himself.”

Silence. Then she hears him shifting. “That's fine.”

She looks up and glares at him. “How can you say that?”

She must look miserable, or her glare is particularly fierce, because he actually looks startled when he sees her face. No doubt, her eyes must be red-rimmed and puffy from all the crying she's done. She hadn't bothered to comb her hair.

“It's better this way. You two will be happier, in the end.”

“But what about my happiness _now?_ Don't I get a say?” She climbs to her feet and punctuates her words with a few hearty shoves against his chest. He stumbles back a few steps, but makes no motion to stop her. She moves to shove him again, until he says something that she just barely manages to catch.

“That's why I'm here in the first place.”

She stops cold.

“What did you say?”

He too is aware of his slip-up as he stares back, frozen. The cogs are turning in her head. Perhaps she was wrong about why he came back here all along.

He flees.

 

**— xv —**

 

She finds him on the docks at Brighton Beach, when the sun is beginning to set. She doesn't know why she knew to find him here, but she did, like she was magnetized to him, somehow. He's leaning his forearms against a banister, fingers laced, staring out to sea.

“This is where I proposed to you,” he says wistfully.

The tide swells and falls rhythmically, to and fro, to and fro.

She wraps her arms around herself tighter, shivering against the chill of the night. “You know what I think?” she says quietly. “I think my future self would be appalled at what you're doing. I think she would hate that you're trying to make all these decisions by yourself, when they obviously involve me too.”

He laughs mirthlessly. “You don't know a thing.”

“You're wrong. I know _me_. How dare you try and tell me otherwise?” He's turned to look at her fully now, brows knitted, and that only spurs her on. “I get it. You get the chance to change something terrible that happens in your life, and you take it. But that doesn't mean you _should_. You tell me you know the future, and I guess you do, but you know what? Fifteen years really is a long time, and a marriage doesn't fall apart in a day. So you act all-knowing, and try and point to one little thing, and you say 'That's the weak link,' like that will magically fix everything. But really, you haven't a clue.”

“Why can't you see that I'm just trying to help you?”

 _“Help_ me? You think this is _helping?_ You think him treating me like a total stranger is _helping?_ You think ruining my current life will save my future life?”

“Ye— No— I just—”

“Then _why_ the hell are you doing this?!”

_“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!”_

A wave crests high and crashes back down.

“… Loved… you…”

He flounders, trying to withdraw his words. It's out in the open now, and he can't take it back.

The water creeps off the shore.

“Can you tell me the truth?” she whispers.

He blinks rapidly, like he's trying to fight back tears, and he leans back on the banister again with a resigned sigh. “We fall in love, and we get married, Annie. All of that was true… And dammit, we were so happy. I was so happy. I felt like I'd waited my whole life to meet you, and when I had you to myself, I didn't think life could get any better.

“But something happened along the line. We changed, I suppose. One day we got in a big fight. And you said, maybe if you had never married me, you would be happy.

“It broke my heart, seeing you in so much pain. So I traveled back in time, so you could be happy. But I figured it'd be useless trying to stop my past self from falling in love with you. I knew that, no matter what happened, I'd still fall in love with you, and I wouldn't be able to stop it. That's why I went to you. That's why I tried to keep you from falling in love with me. Because if you stopped then, then that meant I could stop it now.” His voice breaks. “I didn't mean to cause you any more pain than I already have. I love you so much, I don't care what happens to me. All I want is for you to be happy.”

They're silent for a long time, with nothing but the sound of the waves filling the air. The sky morphs to a bright pink. A seagull makes off with its catch.

Annie shoves her chilled hands deep into the pockets of her sweater. “I'm probably hurting a lot, in your time,” she says at last. “And I know you're hurting a lot now. But I don't take it back.” She looks him straight in the eye. “I don't wish I never met you. I don't think my future self does either. Because I would never wish away the happiness I have now just because I couldn't keep it.”

 

**— xvi —**

 

She supposes it isn't healthy for her to drown her sadness in wine so often. But that is what she does, sitting alone in the living room of her apartment, wine glass clutched precariously in her fingers. Wine doesn't judge her, doesn't look at her with contempt, not unless she stares at her reflection in the burgundy depths, and all it takes is a few more sips before it all blurs away into nothingness.

She's drifting, teetering on the edge of consciousness, when she hears a sound outside her door.

__“_ Annie!”_

She lifts her head. She swears she just heard her name, and she swears it sounded like Finnick. _That doesn't make sense. Finnick hates me_ , she thinks grimly. But then she hears furious footsteps up the stairwell and down the hall, rapidly approaching, and then the pounding on her door begins. “ANNIE! ANNIE!”

There's no denying it. That's Finnick alright, she'd recognize that voice anywhere. Annie rushes to her feet and hurries to unbolt the door, her mind racing a mile a minute as to what could possibly have him sounding so distressed. She barely manages to get the door open before Finnick practically throws himself on her, grabbing her arms tightly.

“Are you okay?!” His eyes, wide and crazed, can't seem to stop at one place for long. He checks everywhere, her face, her arms, her hair, follows the movement with his hands.

“Finnick, I'm fine. What's going on?” She hasn't spoken to him in so long, not really, and her heart pounds in her chest just from having him here, now, touching her.

Finnick gapes like a fish, mouth opening and closing while he searches for the words. “I… I don't know. I got a phone call and, and all I could hear was you screaming, but you wouldn't answer, and… I thought… I thought—” He doesn't finish, he can't, because he starts crying.

He cradles her face in his hands, like he can't believe she's here in his arms. That makes two of them. She lets him hold her, lets him bury his face in her hair and sob himself dry. That's fine. There's no place else she'd rather be right now.

All too quickly, he unwinds himself from her, and she has to force down the sound of protest bubbling in her throat. He smiles sheepishly, tears still hanging from his lashes. “I'm glad you're okay,” he says genuinely. “Sorry if I bothered you. I… I guess I'll leave now.” He walks backwards towards the door, like he's afraid of tearing his gaze away from her. He stands in the doorway, hasn't even turned around yet when she calls out to him.

“Finnick, wait.” Once again, her voice acts before her brain can catch up.

He just stares at her expectantly, and she doesn't know how to explain it. She doesn't know how to explain everything that's happened to her after all this time. She doesn't know how to tell him how much he means to her. She can spin the most poetic tales of love and longing through her music, but she cannot do this, and it's eating her alive.

But he saves when her eyes suddenly threaten tears; he tilts her chin up gently with his fingers. “Whatever you say, I'll believe you,” he says, and the tenderness of it is all she needs.

“It was somebody that looked and sounded a lot like you,” she concedes. “But it wasn't you.” The tears spill freely down her cheeks now. “Finnick, I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I want you back. I—”

He envelopes her in his arms before she can finish. “It's okay, Annie,” he whispers, repeats it again and again, and she just clings to him, and he clings to her, like they're both drowning and they need the other to breathe.

 

**— xvii —**

 

When she meets him at the docks again, he's crying.

He has his face in his hands. (She's aware of how their roles have reversed.) She's only ever seen Finnick like this once before. Perhaps some things just don't change after-all.

“I found Wiress and Beetee from this time,” he explains, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “We took a recording of your voice, and warped it, and we sent it to him. He did the rest.”

Of course he did. Because he loves her.

(Both of them.)

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For giving us a chance.”

“I did it before.” He gives her a watery smile. “No reason why I wouldn't do it again.”

 

**— xviii —**

 

They lie in bed together, her and her Finnick. He's tracing words against her naked hip with his fingers. The same words, over and over again. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

She rolls onto her other side, facing him. “I love you too,” she says, kisses him slowly, like they have forever to love each other.

“I love you,” he says, as if the words could not remain there unspoken upon his lips.

 

**— xix —**

 

A year since she's met the man wearing the sunglasses and fedora, he decides it's finally time to go home.

They're standing in a secluded, wooded area in Central Park. She's not sure why she felt the need to see him off, and she's not sure why he let her, but it feels like the right thing to do.

“I won't remember you at all?”

He shakes his head. “You and he will still be as you are. You won't forget each other. But it'll be like I was just a little voice in your head this whole time. And it'll be like I never left my time. An hour will have passed there.”

Annie offers him a small smile. (Fifteen years wasted, is what he told her when he arrived. She wonders if he only returned to spend another year with her.) He hesitates, but then reaches over and strokes her cheek, lightly chucks under her chin with a loose fist. “You have no idea just how special you are, kid.”

She hears the hidden meaning behind his words all the same. (Just how special you are _to me_.) She catches his hand between both of hers.

“We'll meet again, Finnick.”

He sucks in a slow, shuddering breath. “I know, Annie.”

He steps back, smiling at her, and walks deeper into the woods. She watches while he fiddles with a device upon his wrist, his back to her. She won't forget, even if he says she will. It's too important. As her vision begins to white out, she hums softly under her breath, a melody a boy made when he was fourteen. No, she can't forget something like this. She won't. Not something this precious to her.

She

can't

f

o

r

g

e

t

.

.

.

 

**— xx —**

 

Wiress and Beetee never said it would be like this.

He thought the trip back would be just the same as the trip there. Blinding white light, and a blanketing silence, until everything visualizes before his eyes again. But as he's thrust back into his own time, something strange happens. Instead of the light and the silence, he sees the two of them, him and Annie, and the life they lived, but there's a distance to it, like he's watching it all through a fishbowl. Snippets of their life, pieced together like frames of a film roll.

And he understands.

.

.

.

“Nervous?”

They're moving to their new home together, away from New York, for bigger opportunities. All of it sets her nerves aflame. She's leaving behind her family, Johanna, all her friends, everybody and everything she's ever known.

But California will be better for the both of them. They'll get a fresh start.

And it's not like they're in the Stone Ages. There's always email or Skype.

Yes, the two of them will have to make new friends together, but at least they'll have each other.

“No. Not really.”

_(That's all I ever wanted. Just you. And I was happy.)_

.

.

.

Premature ovarian failure.

Failure. From Latin _fallere_ , meaning to disappoint, deceive.

It's just a word, something that can't hurt her, but it's a word nonetheless that won't let her have a child.

She wishes he would stop looking at her like that, like she's shattered. She already knows how broken she is. Failure. To disappoint, deceive.

He blames her for being unable to carry his child.

She blames herself too.

_(I didn't. I could never.)_

_(I was angry. I was sad. I was terrified.)_

_(But so were you. I didn't want you to have to shoulder both your pain and mine. You'd already been through so much.)_

.

.

.

“Babe? Where are you?” She has a new song she wants to show him; she thinks he'll like it. Finnick is sitting at her keyboard, plucking notes and writing on empty sheet music. She looks from him to the keyboard to the sheet music, trying to take it all in. It doesn't make sense.

“What's going on?” she asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

He smiles, jotting down some more notes on the staves. “Maybe I'll try writing my own songs for this one. What do you think?”

Her grip unconsciously tightens around the sheet music in her hand. “Oh.” She's taken too long to respond. She hides the paper behind her back, forces on a smile, and he doesn't think anything of it. “Okay.”

_(I didn't know. I just wanted to do something for you for once. You've done so much for me.)_

_(I needed to deserve you.)_

.

.

.

Not even a nomination.

The televised nominations are over, and there is no Annie Cresta anywhere on there.

Finnick turns to her, wraps an arm around her shoulder. “It was a really good album, you know.”

It doesn't matter. Not when the Grammy's have passed up the best work she's ever done in her life.

“Not good enough.”

He tries to smile for her. “There's always next year.”

_(You're something special, baby. I should have told you that more when you needed it.)_

.

.

.

This stupid city. These stupid reporters who wait outside their gate screaming for Finnick. She's sick of it. Sick sick sick of it. She wishes she could do something about it. Burn their papers, break their cameras. Maybe then they'll notice her.

It's never Annie. It's always Finnick's wife, the songwriter that writes for Finnick. It's never even Annie and Finnick. It's always Finnick and Annie.

Never just Annie.

_(I was yours. I am yours.)_

_(I'm Annie's Finnick.)_

.

.

.

“Annie,” he says, reaching for her glass. "You shouldn't be drinking so much.”

She jerks away from his touch, tears in her eyes. “Leave me alone,” she snaps.

His eyes widen, but then he narrows them. “Fine,” he hisses, and he slams the door behind him as he leaves.

The sound has her bursting into tears again. “Wait. Help me,” she chokes into her hands, but Finnick is already gone.

_(Please.)_

.

.

.

He's on set, filming for a television series. She's at home sobbing into a glass of wine.

So much she threw away. For them. For “us.”

Was this worth fighting for?

_(Stop.)_

.

.

.

“I'm home.”

They announced the Grammy nominations for the year. Usually he's there to watch them with her. But he's been gone all day filming.

Empty wine bottles don't litter the table this time. Everything's been poured down the drain, ever since Dr. Aurelius gave the order. He makes sure to watch her, see if she stays sober. If he's ever home.

“Annie?”

She sits on the floor, shoved between the wall and the end of the couch. Finnick finds her there. He notes her position, her expression. “There's always next year,” he says, just as he always does.

“There's no 'next year,'” she hisses. He raises a brow at her, but he doesn't say anything. He looks tired. She doesn't care because the fire in her chest burns hotly.

“Don't you understand by now?! There's _no. More. Time!_ ” She grabs the closest thing she can find and throws it in his direction. It misses him, crashes against the wall, but he's startled all the same. “It's all ever _you_. Everything I ever was, is sucked away by _you_. There's nothing left of _me_. I have no more time and I'm _gone_.” She continues hysterically grabbing and throwing anything she can get her hands on, the phone, a vase, a lamp. He's tried to grab her by now, stop her from destroying anything else, and she thrashes in his grip and shrieks until she's hoarse and spent. She slips from his hands and sinks to the ground, sobbing noisily into her hands.

“If only I never married you…”

_(Please.)_

_(Please no please. It can't be over. It went too fast. There wasn't enough time. I have so much left to give you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Give me one more chance. Just one more.)_

_(I'll listen this time. I will. I promise.)_

_(Just one more chance.)_

.

.

.

They shut down the café across The District. A Pakistani restaurant takes its place, then a boutique, then a camera shop, then nothing at all; they demolish the whole block all together for a new parking garage.

Annie's old upright piano stands shoved in a corner and forgotten in her parents' attic.

The vandalized sign on the edge of Brighton Beach has been removed, replaced with a clean one warning visitors not to run on the sidewalk.

_(Annie.)_

_(My sweet Annie.)_

_(I'm going to miss you all over again.)_

 

**— xx, al fine —**

 

“I guess this is good-bye.”

_(It seems all I ever do is say good-bye to you.)_

The moving van is filled with his belongings. He gave her the house, and he's moving into his own. All that's left to do is to leave.

He exhales heavily. “Annie. I'm sorry I—”

But she stops him. “Finnick. No more. No more apologies. No more shrinks. No more compromises.” Her voice is quiet while she holds the last of his suitcases to him. “It's over.”

(Funny how easily “forever” can turn into “over.”)

He takes the suitcase from her. She doesn't linger too long, doesn't let their fingers touch.

He never noticed it, not until it was too late, when “them” became so crushed and broken, the pieces were too fine, too numerous for them to put back together again.

He makes for the door, intending to leave without another word. But he stops at the doorway; he cannot help grasping at any small semblance of hope that may still thread them together, no matter how spindly it's become.

“Annie?” He turns to look at her again and his breath catches in his throat. She stands at the window, daylight filtering in through the translucent silk curtain. Her hair is bedraggled, tied in a loose ponytail, face free of any make-up, eyes half-lidded. She stands with her arms looped around her middle. He can't help staring just as he used to. Annie is so incredibly, tragically beautiful. “If you could, would you do it all over again?”

She turns to him and their eyes meet. He's searching. For something. Just a small spark that'll tell him none of this was a waste. That she still believes in what she told him fifteen years ago.

He sees it, just a small flash of something, but he sees it. (Or maybe it's just a trick of the light.)

“Yes,” she breathes. “In a heartbeat.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos/reviews are greatly appreciated! If you like what you've read, please consider following my tumblr, where I post wips, artwork, and more! Check it out @ thewildwilds.tumblr.com
> 
> You can listen to Annie's cereal jingle [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3P3TyeJSkQ). I wish I could say I wrote it, but I didn't.


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